Death at St. Asprey’s School (16 page)

“He didn't follow you to the staff part of the house?”

“No. He'd have told me if he had. Why do you ask these questions?”

“I like to follow everyone's movements that afternoon. He went to look for you in the private part of the house just after you came through the hall from your room. He asked Mrs. Skippett if she'd seen you.”

“It all sounds so important now, doesn't it?” said Mollie sadly. “Such trivial things do. Yet all that might have happened any afternoon.”

“Murder's like that.”

“Do you think I'm suspected, Mr. Deene? Tell me frankly.”

“Not on what you've told me this afternoon,” said Carolus..

Was there a touch of exaggeration in Mollie's relief?
“That's
all right, then,” she said.

When Carolus reached the common-room it was empty, but after a while Mayring came in wearing his spotless flannels.

“Left my pipe here,” he explained looking round for a large cherry-wood incinerator which he was learning to handle.

“How are the rehearsals going?” asked Carolus.

“Terrific. Lipscomb's going to be terrific as Bottom and I've decided to play Oberon myself—the king of the fairies, you know. Chavanne's Puck. It'll be absolutely terrific.”

“I hope you don't lose any of your cast after the Inquest.”

“There is that,” said Mayring soberly.

“I've got one question for you, by the way.”

“Oh Lord! I want to get up to the nets. You know we lost to St. Carrier's on Saturday…”

“I won't keep you a moment. Did you go into Sime's room just after lunch on the day of the murder?”

“What makes you ask?” fenced Mayring.

“Curiosity. Somebody must have. You were here in the common-room weren't you?”

“Yes. I was. I can't remember whether I went into Sime's room then. I certainly found him later.”

“I know about that. Did you go in just after lunch?”

“I may have. I often do.”

“I wonder why you are so evasive. You will certainly be asked this at the Inquest.”

“I'm not evasive. I can't remember everything.”

“You say you often went to his room after lunch. Any particular reason?”

“Oh he was laid up. Couldn't move. I went in to see if he wanted anything.”

“And did he? That afternoon?”

“No. Jumbo Parker was in there, having a chat. He's about the only other person in the place who would speak to Sime.”

“Except Mollie Westerly.”

“I suppose. But not if she could help it.”

“But you got on quite well with Sime?”

“Yes. I was sorry for him when he was laid up. Rotten luck, in the summer term. Now I
do
want to get up to the cricket field.”

“Were the curtains in Sime's room drawn when you left?”

At that moment Jumbo Parker came into the room.

“I can't possibly remember,” said Mayring. “You had better ask Parker.”

Carolus did.

“Mayring tells me that you were chatting with Sime when he looked in after lunch on Friday. Do you happen to remember if his curtains were drawn then?”

“No. They can't have been because I drew them for him. He asked me to because he wanted a nap.”

“What time would that have been?”

“Somewhere between half past one and two,” said Parker. “I don't know exactly.”

“Well, now I
am
going to cricket,” said Mayring.

As he opened the door a chorus rose from those waiting in the passage.

“Please sir, may I play Quince?”

“Please sir, Chavanne says if he's got to wear a goblin hat he doesn't want to play Puck. May I play it, sir?”

“Please sir, Matron says we can't use pillows for Bottom's padding.”

“Shut up!” shouted Mayring desperately, “and get up to the cricket field, you mooncalves.”

When he went outside he found Kneller waiting for him. Yet another of these information volunteers he thought. But Kneller in his deep abstracted way—though he obviously had something to communicate—was not in a hurry to come to the point. He asked Carolus what he thought were the chances of the school's being able to continue, not disguising that his chief anxiety was to retain possession of his cottage.

“When this was a private estate,” he explained, “my wife's father was the agent here and she was brought up in the cottage in which we live. She could never feel as sure of herself anywhere else. I hope you will come across and see us sometime. My wife would be delighted. She likes meeting people.”

Carolus said he would certainly do so.

“She does not get many callers,” said Kneller. “The Rector occaisionally. D'you know Spancock?”

“Yes. He seems quite a lively character.”

“Very abrupt, though. I can scarcely follow him.”

“He was at your cottage on the afternoon of Sime's death, I believe?”

“Yes. He dropped in unexpectedly not long after lunch. He wanted to hear about Sime. He was up at the church at the time of the accident, you know.”

“Then why didn't he go to see Sime?”

“They didn't Get On,” said Kneller. “There was some trouble once when Sime criticized Parker as an organist. All very trivial, I expect, but the Rector preferred to ask us for news of him. He didn't stay ten minutes.”

“He didn't go in for archery then?”

“He came out one afternoon and had a shot but couldn't get an arrow on the target. By the way, the police have taken all my archery equipment, I suppose for examination. It's a bit of a bore but as Sconer has banned archery for this term it doesn't matter so much. I can't see what they'll get from finger printing that stuff. Everyone has handled everything.”

“Did you keep an exact tally of the arrows you had?”

“Yes. We've lost several since we've been practising. But Sime wasn't shot with one of those we use on the targets, you know.”

“He wasn't?”

“No. It was a hunting arrow or broadhead. I showed you one of them before.”

“I remember. A fearsome thing. The shaft was rather longer I seem to remember. Could you screw an ordinary arrow's shaft on to the hunting arrow head?”

“No. The thread is different.”

“But you might be able to shoot one broadhead among the target arrows without being noticed?”

“Easily, I should think. When we're practising each of us is chiefly concerned with his own bow and arrows and target, of course. He wouldn't be looking round at the next
man's. Of course when they all walked down to the targets it might be noticed.”

“The arrow which killed Sime was one of yours, of course?”

“Yes. At least I presume so. One of my broadheads was missing.”

“When did you discover that?”

“Not till after the murder, unfortunately. They were kept apart from the others. When I heard that Sime had been shot with a broadhead I went and checked and found one missing. Someone must have been pretty confident of himself to take only one for a job like that. Suppose he had missed?”

“Suppose William Tell had missed,” said Carolus facetiously. “What a lot of words and music it would have saved us. Schiller's too much for me, anyway.”

“But I like Rossini's music,” admitted Kneller. “Anyway, Tell did hit the apple and whoever killed Sime did…” A slow and rather ugly smile appeared on Kneller's face … “hit the adam's apple,” he finished.

Carolus became more businesslike.

“Had everyone easy access to all the arrows at any time?” he asked.

“Good gracious, no. You don't think I would leave them unlocked with fifty little fiends of boys about, do you? The summer-house where they were kept had a strong lock with an enormous key and I locked up after we had finished practising each day.”

“But while you were all here it was open of course. Were the arrows you weren't using, the broadheads for instance, in a locked box?”

“No. I see what you're getting at. Any of us could have extracted a broadhead without being noticed, probably.”

“That's what I wanted to know.”

They were interrupted by Stanley who strolled up so casually that Carolus guessed he had some purpose in joining them.

“I hope you two chaps realize you're being watched,” said Stanley.

“From Matron's window, you mean? When are we ever
not
watched from there?”

“She can't see the rose garden, though,” said Stanley with satisfaction. “She doesn't know that you and Mollie had a natter this afternoon.”

“Don't be too sure of that.” Kneller sounded damping. “It's not only observation with Matron. It's her information service.”

He nodded grimly and without another word walked away in the direction of his cottage.

“Strange chap, Kneller,” said Stanley inevitably and banally.

“Think so? He seems to know a lot about archery. He has been telling me about the different kind of arrows. Sime was killed with a broadhead, apparently.”

“Was he?” said Stanley with marked indifference. “What am I expected to do about it? Weep?”

“It was murder,” said Carolus.

“Of course it was. How else could Sime die? It's a wonder it didn't happen years ago. People like that can't shuffle off this mortal coil unhurriedly. Someone's bound to do for them.”

“You make no secret of your feelings.”

“Why should I? I didn't kill him—though it surprises me I didn't. No one can possibly suspect me.”

“I can't quite see why not.”

“Me? When everyone knew how I felt about the man? When I'd said a dozen times that I'd like to strangle him.
Would
I be such a fool?”

“On that I have no opinion. What had you against Sime? Apart from the congenital loathing you felt for him about which you are so frank.”

Stanley sounded very contemptuous.

“Only that he was trying to get possession of the school—that's all.”

“How do you know that?”

“Believe it or not, he actually told some of the boys that he would be headmaster next term. He also said something of the sort to me during one of our rows. How this was to come about he did not say. But he seemed quite sure of it. I don't know how he proposed to get rid of the Sconers. Or perhaps he saw himself as their partner. He had it all planned out, anyway. You may be sure that if anything of that sort ever did happen the first change he would make would be to sack Kneller and me. But I did not take the threat seriously.”

“Did anyone?”

“I don't know. I shouldn't think so. Oh, by the way, Stella Ferris asked me to ask you if you'd come to their place for cocktails this evening. About six. She says they've scarcely met you yet.”

“Yes. I'd like to.”

“Perhaps you'll give Mollie and me a lift then? We can show you the way.”

So at six o'clock Carolus drove to the pretentious entrance of a large Cotswold house built about eighty years ago in the style of an earlier century. The garden was well-kept, but given to statuary and artificial pools rather than flowers, and the door was opened by a butler or at least an individual dressed as one; perhaps a survival or perhaps an impersonation, Carolus thought.

The hall was rather grand but lacked mammalia or any sign of taxidermy because Bill Ferris was (unexpectedly in
such a hearty good mixer,) anti blood sports. The house smelt of expensive cigar smoke, expensive flowers, expensive scent.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ferris are in the library,” said the character who had opened the door in a suitably bass voice as he showed them the way.

The library was a charming room, given its name, presumably, because there was a small book-case near the window containing modern novels. Carolus managed to sit beside this and saw, as he expected, all the right names—Murdoch, Snow, Braine, Sillitoe, Waugh, Greene, but under them, with a more used look about them, Christie, Ailingham, Queen, Blake and other writers of crime novels.

Bill Ferris opened a drink cabinet and began to handle its utensils with an air which suggested an exhibition of cocktail mixing.

“The usual, darling?” he said in his rich plummy voice to his wife.

“Need
you ask?” returned Stella, without much good humour, Carolus thought.

“My wife always has a Bronx,” Bill explained to Carolus after pouring, shaking and pouring in a deft and practised manner. “I expect you'd rather have a dry Martini?”

“Thanks. I'd like a Scotch and soda, please,” said Carolus dampingly.

“Not
a cocktail man?” said Bill. “You're right, of course. They're Out at the moment except the old Dry Martini. But we like them.”

“Darling, don't talk such nonsense,” said Stella in a tired irritable voice. “What has fashion to do with it? Surely we can drink what we like?”

“Oh to hell,” said Bill Ferris impatiently. Then, “I'm sorry, Mollie. I'm neglecting you. What will it be?”

Mollie Westerly had changed her manner with her clothes
since this afternoon and returned to her crisp almost harsh way of speaking.

“Gin on the rocks,” she said appropriately.

“I'll have the same,” Stanley announced.

There was silence when everyone had been given a drink.

“I miss the old archery,” said Bill, breaking it. “I was getting quite hot in the last few weeks.”

“Darling, anyone would think you were a marksman, the way you talk,” said Stella sharply. “You were only just above average. Kneller was a far better shot.”

“Perhaps. Shooting at targets. Give me
tir a la perche.
I could have seen him off at that.”

“Really, darling, you
do
bore me when you talk like that. Who wants to hear how brilliant you were at shooting birds out of trees? All Mr. Deene wants to know is whether you shot Sime.”